The Project Gutenberg eBook of Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 141, vol. III, September 11, 1886
    
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Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, fifth series, no. 141, vol. III, September 11, 1886

Author: Various

Release date: July 6, 2024 [eBook #73978]

Language: English

Original publication: Edinburgh: William and Robert Chambers, 1853

Credits: Susan Skinner, Eric Hutton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 141, VOL. III, SEPTEMBER 11, 1886 ***





[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 141.—VOL. III.      SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 11, 1886.      PRICE 1½_d._]




THE GREEK GYPSIES AT LIVERPOOL.


Towards the middle of last July, the people of Liverpool were surprised
by the advent of a large band of Greek gypsies, ninety-nine in number,
whom the London train had left stranded on a vacant space of ground
beside the railway station. Though spoken of as ‘Greek’ gypsies, they
were really from all parts of the Græco-Turkish corner of Europe, and
some even from Smyrna and its neighbourhood. But they preferred to be
regarded as Greeks, and all of them spoke the modern Greek tongue.
They had come to Liverpool, intending to take an early steamer to New
York; but their progress was here suddenly arrested; and their stay in
Liverpool proved to be of longer duration than had been anticipated by
themselves or by others. From their first squatting-ground beside the
station they had early been removed to a secluded corner at Walton,
within the grounds of the Zoological Gardens. But how long they must
yet remain there, and what was to be done with them, seemed difficult
problems.

It was not the fault of these strange emigrants that they thus halted
on the outward verge of Europe. They had honestly paid their way hither
from their Mediterranean home, and they had enough money among them to
pay for their passage across the Atlantic. But at this point America
interfered. Ready as she once was to welcome all immigrants with open
arms, America has become less hospitable of recent years. She has
excluded the Chinaman, for racial reasons; and now she is drawing the
line at the ‘pauper,’ of whatever race, because of his poverty. It is
not many years since Longfellow apostrophised _Driving Cloud_, ‘chief
of the mighty Omawhaws,’ telling him it was in vain that he and his
meagre tribe ‘claimed the soil for their hunting-grounds,’

                      While down-trodden millions
    Starve in the garrets of Europe, and cry from its caverns that they, too,
    Have been created heirs of the earth, and claim its division!

But times are changed. And the European ‘pauper’ finds no resting-place
on North American soil, but is sent back to his old hopeless existence
in the garrets and ‘caverns’ of Europe. It is only the self-supporting
immigrant that receives a welcome. There is nothing unnatural in this
attitude of the Americans. A young and ambitious country does not want
its ranks to be recruited from the idle, unenergetic, and criminal
classes of older states; indeed, half the troubles of America have
come, not from the descendants of the men who founded the Republic,
but from the heterogeneous invaders of the present century. Thus, the
American attitude is intelligible enough. Nevertheless, the mere fact
that the poor are not permitted to seek a home in that vast country,
forms a grim commentary on the popular conception of America as the
great haven of refuge for all the victims of Old-world tyrannies.

It must be confessed that the appearance of the gypsy camp at Walton
was not at all suggestive of the ideal emigrant; so that it was perhaps
as well that the present writer conceived the idea of visiting them
without any intention of advocating their claim to such a title. The
scene, truly, did not suggest any such qualities as cleanliness,
industry, or wealth. Scattered along two sides of an open grassy
triangle stood the gypsy tents, some fifteen or twenty—small-sized,
mean, and dingy, loosely put together, constructed of old canvas or
sacking, which fell on either side of a low ridge-pole, and was closed
at one end. In the open space between the two rows of tents a group
of gypsy men were amusing themselves—some wrestling and fighting
playfully; while the others looked on, talking, laughing, and smoking.
A few female figures were moving about among the tents; and a host of
children, of all sizes, scampered, toddled, and tumbled over the grass,
as happy as if they had never breathed a milder air than that of this
chilly English summer day.

One glance at the swarthy faces of these people was enough to convince
one that their claim to be called ‘gypsies’ did not rest upon the
mere fact that they were nomads by habit and tinkers by trade, but
that they were the little-mixed representatives of a distinct racial
type. A closer examination did reveal the presence of an infusion of
white blood among a few of them; but nearly all were the darkest of
all dark-skinned Europeans. In no degree whatever did their tawny
complexion result from long exposure to wind and sun; for, when one
glanced at the skin which their half-open shirts disclosed, or at the
bodies of the ill-clad little creatures everywhere running about, one
saw the same uniform dusky hue. The hair of all was jet black; but the
colour of their eyes seemed to be invariably of a deep hazel shade,
rather than the opaque black that may be seen in the eyes of many
people of a fairer skin.

No sooner were their visitors descried, than several young children,
and one girl of about seventeen, swooped down on them with pleading
cries for money. Strongly resembling the children of our itinerant
Italians in their dress and appearance, they were also like them
in their appealing tones and in the very words they used. ‘Grazia,
grazia, deh mi pena [penny], ma dona!’ were the words they reiterated
in various combinations, as they held out their dirty little hands
beseechingly for the expected ‘pena.’ Whether they had become familiar
with this Italian patois during their temporary residence in Italy, or
whether—as is likelier—they had been always accustomed to it in their
homes among the Ionian Islands, it was clearly the favourite form of
speech among the younger children. But that they also understood modern
Greek became speedily clear, although they were far from appreciating
the uses to which that language was put. For on this occasion the
writer was accompanied by a Greek gentleman, representing an eminent
merchant of Liverpool who had greatly exerted himself on behalf of his
otherwise friendless countrymen; and by his instructions, all attempts
at begging were sternly suppressed, not only because the thing itself
was objectionable, but also because he foresaw that, if indulged in, it
would further complicate the position of the gypsies, and counteract
his efforts to arouse the sympathy of the American authorities.
Accordingly, by a few rapid sentences in Greek, the suppliants were
effectually repressed.

As soon as the leading men of the band who were then present—the
chief himself had gone into town with two of his followers—understood
that one of their visitors was a fellow-countryman, representing
their patron, they thronged around him with a hundred questions,
gesticulating violently the while; and the burden of their complaint
was: ‘How long must we remain here?’ ‘Why should we be detained when
our journey is half over?’ ‘Why will the Americans not let us come?’
Their case was really a hard one. Three hundred napoleons had they
spent on their journey from Greece—on the clear understanding that
they were to obtain a passage across the Atlantic from Liverpool, the
money for which they had in their possession. Then came the word that
they would not be allowed to land; when immediately the steamship
companies unanimously refused to take them as passengers. Nor was
Canada a bit more friendly than the States; so that only South America
remained open to them. This, indeed, was where they specially wished
to go—among the Southern Europeans and their fellow-gypsies. But a
voyage to Brazil means a great deal more money than the short passage
to New York. The other alternative held up to them—to return to their
native country—they indignantly repelled. They had left it for want of
employment, and in the hopes of making more money in the New World; for
the reasons, in short, which induce other people to emigrate; and they
had no wish to waste their substance on a fruitless journey to and from
Liverpool.

Although nomadic gypsies, not very clean in their appearance and ways,
it must be remembered that these people were, like many other gypsies,
honest craftsmen. Some English gypsies who visited them came away with
the impression that they were extremely well skilled in metal-working;
and the account given by one of their ‘interviewers,’ a Roumanian
gentleman, quite bears this out. ‘Mr —— asked the chief why the tribe
thought of going to America, and was answered that they wished to make
a living. In Roumania they could “use the lead” [solder], and they
could make and clean pans [the pans being presumably of copper, since
they were noted for their skill in copper-working]. They were also
builders, and carried bricks and mortar. They also tilled the soil....
From his [Mr ——’s] knowledge of their habits in Roumania, he did not
think the Americans need fear their advent, as they would strive to
earn an honest living.’ To all this favourable testimony may be added
the statement made by the proprietor of the Gardens, that, so far as he
could judge, they were absolutely free from the vice of drunkenness,
which was more than he could say of many of the ‘roughs’ who came to
look at them.

The passports which they produced from their pocket-books were seen
to be bi-lingual—French and Greek in several instances, French and
Roumanian, apparently, in others. One ran in the name of King Milan
I. of Servia. The French designation given to them was that of
_chaudronnier_ (tinker). Their Christian names, detailed in their
respective passports, were various—such as Michael (the name of their
chief), Constantin, Stefano, and Janka; among the female names were
Maria and Ghuri (pron. Gew′ri). The passports, which had been duly
_visé’d_ by the various consuls, frequently included a considerable
number of individuals in each, thus covering one or more families. As
already stated, these people came from all parts of Greece and European
Turkey—from Corfu on the west, and Smyrna on the east, and also from
the principalities of Servia, Bulgaria, and Roumania. Many of them, no
doubt, are among the people particularly treated of in Dr Paspati’s
well-known work on the Turkish Gypsies.

After their first expressions of indignation and annoyance at their
mysterious detention had passed off, these men fell into a pleasanter
humour, and accepted with gratitude a few cigars which their visitors
offered them. They seemed great smokers, both men and women, their
favourite pipe being about a foot in length, with a pendulous, elastic
tube. On learning that the present writer had come all the way from
‘Scozia’ (Scotland) to see them, they showed much gratification, to
which their chief spokesman at once gave expression in modern Greek
through the medium of our interpreter; and, pointing to the freshly-lit
cigar at which he was now puffing vigorously, he said with emphasis,
‘_Bōn’, bōn’_;’ in this case employing his Italian dialect as likely
to be the most intelligible form of speech. This man was quite an
accomplished linguist, and could speak Greek, Russian, Roumanian, and
two or three other dialects of South-eastern Europe. The curious thing
was, that while he seemed rather proud of his attainments, he never
once included in his list his own mother-tongue, the speech of the
gypsy race. Neither would he admit that he was a ‘ziganka,’ not for
a long time, at anyrate; but subsequently, both he and his comrades
answered to the name of _Roum_,[1] and the cigar was no longer _bōn’_,
but _lâsho_.[2]

[1] _Roum_ or _Rom_, the gypsies’ own name for a gypsy all the world
over.

[2] _Lásho_, otherwise _látcho_, ‘good.’

The Greek gentleman and the visitor from Scozia had by this time made a
sufficient investigation of the camp. The general effect of the people
and their surroundings was undoubtedly disappointing. There was an
almost total absence of colour in their attire, which—among the men, at
least—was very plain, and had little of a distinctive character about
it. One, however, wore a broad leathern belt studded with brass-headed
nails, which had something about it suggesting the picturesque; while
the fingers of most of the men and women were adorned with many rings.
The men wore their hair short, and some had moustaches and beards.
There was more that was characteristic about the women. The general
hue of their attire was ‘sad-coloured,’ like that of the men; but
one had a red, white-spotted kerchief wound round her head, gypsy
fashion; and most of them had necklaces of coral or beads, and large
silver coins disposed in strings around their neck and shoulders.
Their raven tresses were braided in long plaits, which hung down on
either side. But none of these gypsy women could be called handsome,
and, indeed, were much inferior to the men in this respect. Among the
children, however, there were one or two really pretty faces; one, a
little girl of five or six, had quite a refined and sweet expression,
as well as regular delicate features. In her case, an exception was
made to the stern decree against almsgiving; and it was amusing to
see her shy hesitation as, with hanging head, and a side-glance at
the gypsy man beside her—who, with many cuffs to right and left, had
repressed all attempts at begging—she held out a tiny hand for the
offered ‘pena,’ while her neat little mouth parted smilingly over a
row of shining ‘ivories.’ The children, in fact, who numbered more
than fifty, constituted the most attractive feature of the scene;
and queer, impish little creatures they were. Even where they had no
claims to beauty, they were still inexpressibly droll. Some possessed
very little clothing wherewith to hide their small brown bodies. One
marched gravely about with nothing on but a dilapidated shirt; while,
in the distance, a nurse about eight years old was seen to pursue and
capture a wholly naked little savage of half her age. Something in
their serio-comic air and the tumbled-together look of their garments,
frequently reminded one of the odd little Bohemians in Callot’s
etchings.

In one tent lay an old and very dark-skinned, white-bearded man.
Through some accident, he had lost the use of his legs; but he lay
stolidly on the ground, smoking a cigar, indifferent, apparently, to
the inquisitive looks of a dozen curious spectators. A baby was lying
very still in a heap of swaddling-clothes beside him—‘dying,’ said some
of the onlookers, though the mother herself pronounced the illness to
be nothing serious.

On leaving the camp, another incident in the checkered life of the
sojourners presented itself. Two of their young women—girls, rather—had
gone into the streets to do a little ‘shopping,’ and had attempted to
enter a butcher’s shop, with intent to purchase; but from the recesses
of this booth, suddenly evoked by their appearance, there issued forth
what Mr Skimpole would have described as ‘the absurd figure of an angry
butcher,’ who, with furious mien and uplifted arm, drove the poor girls
back into the street. Followed by a small crowd of street-children, the
two young Romany maidens strode along, one with a splendid scowl on her
face, as she flashed her angry glances on the jeering _gaújoes_.[3]
But a friend and compatriot was at hand. The irate butcher, being
questioned, explained that he did not drive them away for any attempted
dishonesty, but because he knew, from the previous days’ experience,
that they had only copper to offer him for meat that was fairly worth
some silver. To do him justice, the good butcher began to abate his
wrath as soon as he perceived that there was money to be made after
all. The girls were recalled, and—a perfect mob of children looking
in at door and windows—their aprons were filled with a goodly store
of meat, with which they departed in happiness, blessing their kindly
benefactor.

[3] _Gaújoes_, Gentiles or non-gypsies.

This mid-day visit had not been enough for the gentleman from Scozia,
who returned the same evening to the camp with a small party, one of
the number being a famous ‘word-master’ of Rómanes.[4] And now it
became apparent that the correctly behaved people of the forenoon,
freed from the check of their patron’s influence, had dropped the
mask, and stood boldly forth in their true colours. Not that they were
very bad, even then; their only vice was that of begging. But how to
describe that! From entrance to exit it was incessant, clamorous,
piteous, and beyond all satisfying. Men, women, children, even babies
begged! From every side came the _grazia_ formula; and the nearer
petitioners would lift and kiss the hem of one’s garments. Coppers
vanished like smoke. Cigars and cigarettes were eagerly accepted on
all sides, even by mere children. Nay, so free from shame were the
supplicants, that, perceiving whence one of the ladies drew her store
of cigarettes—thoughtfully laid in for their benefit—one of the young
gypsies quietly thrust his hand into the folds of the dress and drew
out the remaining two or three! There was not the slightest attempt
at violence or furtive theft; only an incessant, plaintive begging
by voice and manner—of the most artistic order, evolved out of the
practice of many generations. Although our own gypsies had long ago the
reputation of practising this art, it is now quite dissociated from
them—in this direct form.

[4] Rómanes, the gypsy language.

Those English gypsies who had visited them had a good deal to say of
their begging propensities. From one they had demanded tobacco to an
unlimited extent, from others they had asked for sugar and soap. And
while it was amusing to hear our own gypsies express their righteous
indignation at the ways of their ‘kin beyond sea,’ it was very
interesting to listen to their remarks upon their common language;
for, although very imperfectly indeed, and only in occasional-words
and phrases, they could understand each other a little—only a little,
however, so great are the differences of intonation, inflexion, and
vocabulary. Nevertheless, now that those Greeks had revealed themselves
in their true character as gypsies, it became clearly evident to their
visitors that—unlike their brethren in Montenegro—they still retained
the language of their race. In the midst of the tumult and crowd—not
only of gypsies but of indiscriminate _gaújoes_—it was impossible even
for a _báro lávengro_[5] to do more than exchange a few brief sentences
with them. But, in that imperfect way, it became clear that this was
a camp of true Romané. _Roum_, or rather _Erroum_ is the form they
give to the more common _Rom_, in which peculiarity they resemble the
_Erroumans_ of the Basque countries. Various words were thus obtained
from them, corresponding generally with those which one finds in Dr
Paspati’s collection.

[5] _Báro lávengro_, ‘great word-maker,’ that is, fluent speaker of the
gypsy language.

But patience has its limits, and a steady and persistent demand
for _largesse_ cannot be as steadily complied with; so, with words
of farewell to the older members of the tribe, who had throughout
restrained themselves—and indeed some of the youthful mendicants, who
were void of shame—the gypsy camp was left to become an interesting
memory.

When these lines were written, the newspapers told of heavy rains and
wet bedraggled tents; and further, of a proposal made by an inveterate
showman to exhibit the gypsies through the music-halls, with their
ancestral games, dances, and craftsmanship. Misguided wanderers from
the blue Ægean, is there no better fate before you than this?




BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

BY FRED. M. WHITE.


IN TWENTY CHAPTERS.—CHAP. I.

The shades of evening had commenced to fall; already the slanting sun
shining through the open window glittered on the array of crystal
glasses, turning the wine within them to a blood-red hue. The remains
of an ample dessert were scattered about the bare polished table,
rich luscious-looking fruits and juicy pines filling the air with
their fragrance. A pleasant room, with its panelled walls and quaint
curiosities, with here and there a modern picture framed; and again
other works standing upon easels or placed against the wainscot. From
the Corso below came the sounds of laughter and gaiety; while within,
the delicate scent of the pines was overpowered by the odour of tobacco
which rose from the cigarettes of the three men sitting there. They
were all young—artists evidently, and from the appearance of one of
them, he was of a different nationality from the others. Frederick
Maxwell was an Englishman, with a passion for art, and no doubt had
he been forced to gain a living by his brush, would have made some
stir in the world; but being born with the traditional silver spoon
in his mouth, his flirtation with the arts never threatened to become
serious. He was leaving Rome in a few days, and the dessert upon the
table was the remains of a farewell dinner—that custom dear to every
English heart. A handsome fair-haired man this Englishman, his clear
bright cheek and blue eyes contrasting with the aquiline features
and olive-hued complexions of his companions. The man with the black
moustache and old velvet painting-jacket, a man with bohemian stamped
on him indelibly, was Carlo Visci, also an artist, and a genius to
boot, but cursed with that indomitable idleness which is the bane of
so many men of talent. The other and slighter Italian, he with the
melancholy face and earnest eyes, was Luigi Salvarini, independent as
to means, and possessed, poor fool! with the idea that he was ordained
by Providence for a second Garibaldi.

There is an infinite sense of rest and comfort, the desire to sit
silent and dream of pleasant things, that comes with tobacco after
dinner, when the eye can dwell upon the waxlights glittering on glass
and china, and on the artistic confusion the conclusion of the repast
produces. So the three men sat listlessly, idly there, each drowsily
engaged, and none caring to break the delicious silence, rendered all
the more pleasing from the gay girlish laughter and the trip of little
feet coming up from the Corso below. But no true Briton can remain long
silent; and Maxwell, throwing his cigarette out through the window,
rose to his feet, yawning. ‘Heigh-ho! So this pleasant life is come to
an end,’ he exclaimed. ‘Well, I suppose one cannot be expected to be
always playing.’

Carlo Visci roused himself to laugh gently. ‘Did you ever do anything
else, my friend?’ he asked. ‘You play here under sunny skies, in a
velvet painting-jacket; then you leave us to pursue the same arduous
toil in the tall hat of Albion’s respectability, in the land of fogs
and snows. Ah! yes, it is only a change of venue, my philosopher.’

‘Not now,’ Salvarini corrected gravely. ‘Remember, he has vowed by all
in his power to aid the welfare of the League. That vow conscientiously
followed out is undertaking enough for one man’s lifetime.’

‘Luigi, you are the skeleton at the feast,’ Visci remonstrated. ‘Cannot
you be happy here for one brief hour without reminding us that we are
bound by chains we cannot sever?’

‘I do not like the mocking tone of your words,’ Salvarini replied. ‘The
subject is too earnest for jesting upon.—Surely, Maxwell, you have not
so soon forgotten the solemnity of the oath you took last night?’

‘I do remember some gibberish I had to repeat, very much like the
conspirators’ chorus at the Opera,’ Maxwell returned with a careless
shrug. ‘It is not bad fun playing at sedition.—But for goodness’ sake,
Luigi, do not keep harping on the same string, like another Paganini,
but without that wizard’s versatility.’

‘You think it play, do you?’ Salvarini asked almost scornfully. ‘You
will find it stern reality some day. Your hour may not come yet, it may
not come for years; but if you are ordered to cut off your right hand,
you will have to obey.’

‘Oh, indeed. Thanks, most earnest youth, for your estimation of my
talent for obedience.—Come, Luigi! do not be so Cassandra-like. If the
worst comes to the worst, I can pitch this thing into the Tiber.’ He
took a gold coin from his pocket as he spoke, making a gesture as if to
throw it through the open lattice.

Salvarini stood up, terror written in every line of his face, as he
arrested the outstretched arm. ‘For heaven’s sake, Maxwell, what are
you thinking of? Are you mad, or drunk, that you can dream of such a
thing?’

Maxwell laughed as he restored the coin to his pocket. ‘All right, old
fellow. I suppose I must honour your scruples; though, mind you, I do
not consider myself bound to do anything foolish even for the League.’

‘You may not think so; indeed, I hope not; but time will tell.’

Maxwell laughed again, and whistled carelessly, thinking no more of the
little episode. The League, the coin, everything was forgotten; but the
time did come when he in his hour of need remembered Luigi’s words, and
vividly realised the meaning of the look on his stern earnest face.

Visci looked on at the incident, totally unmoved, save by a desire to
lead the conversation into more pleasant channels. ‘When do you leave,
Maxwell?’ he asked. ‘I suppose you are not going for a few days?’

‘In about a week probably, not sooner. I did not know I had so many
friends in Rome, till I was going to leave them.’

‘You will not forget your visit to my little place? Genevieve will
never forgive me if I let you go without saying good-bye.’

‘Forget little Genevieve!’ Maxwell cried. ‘No, indeed. Whatever my
engagements may be, I shall find time to see her; though, I daresay,
the day will come when she will forget me easily enough.’

‘I am not so sure of that; she is a warm-hearted child. I tell you what
we will do; and perhaps Sir Geoffrey and his daughter will join us. We
will go down the day after to-morrow, and make a day of it.—Of course
you will be one, Luigi?’

It was growing dark now, too dark to see the rich flush that mounted to
the young Italian’s cheek. He hesitated a moment before he spoke. ‘With
pleasure, Carlo. A day at your little paradise is not to be lightly
refused. I will come gladly.’

‘You make a slight mistake, Visci, when you speak of Genevieve as a
child,’ Maxwell observed reflectively. ‘She is seventeen—a woman,
according to your Italian reckoning. At anyrate, she is old enough to
know the little blind god, or I am much mistaken.’

‘I hope not,’ Visci returned gravely. ‘She is quick and passionate, and
somewhat old for her years, by reason of the seclusion she keeps. But
let the man beware who lightly wins her heart; it would go hard with
him if I crossed his path again!’

‘There are serpents in every paradise,’ Maxwell replied sententiously;
‘and let us hope little Gen. is free from the curiosity of her original
ancestress. But child or not, she has a woman’s heart worth the
winning, in which assertion our silent friend here will bear me out.’

Luigi Salvarini started from his reverie. ‘You are right, Maxwell,’ he
said. ‘Many a man would be proud to wear her gage upon his arm. Even
I—— But why ask me? If I was even so disposed to rest under my own
fig-tree, there are ties which preclude such a blissful thought.’

Maxwell whistled softly, and muttered something about a man drawing a
bow at a venture—the words audible to Salvarini alone.

‘I am tied, as I told you,’ he continued coldly. ‘I do not know why you
have drawn me into the discussion at all. I have sterner work before me
than dallying by a woman’s side looking into her eyes’——

‘And not anything like so pleasant, I dare swear,’ Maxwell interrupted
cheerfully. ‘Come, Luigi; do not be so moody. If I have said anything
in my foolish way to offend you, I am heartily sorry.’

‘I am to blame, Maxwell, not you. You wonder why I am so taken up with
this League; if you will listen, I will tell you. The story is old now;
but I will tell you as best I can remember.’

‘Then, perhaps you will wait till I have found a seat and lighted my
cigarette,’ exclaimed a voice from the background at this moment. ‘If
Salvarini is going to oblige, I cut in as a listener.’

At these words, uttered in a thin, slightly sneering voice, the trio
turned round suddenly. Had it been lighter, they would have seen a
trim, well-built figure, with head well set on square shoulders, and a
perfectly cut, deadly pale face, lighted with piercing black eyes, and
adorned by a well-waxed, pointed moustache. From his accents, there
must have been something like a sneer upon his lips. But whatever he
might have been, he seemed to be welcome enough now as he drew a chair
to the open window.

‘Better late than never,’ Maxwell cried. ‘Help yourself to wine, Le
Gautier; and make all due apologies for not turning up to dinner.’

‘I will do so,’ the new-comer said languidly. ‘I was detained out of
town.—No; you need not ask if a pair of bright eyes were the lodestars
to my ardent soul, for I shall not tell you; and in the second place, I
have been obtaining your permit as a Brother of the League. I offered
up myself on the shrine of friendship; I lost my dinner, _voilà tout_;’
and saying these words, he put a narrow slip of parchment in Maxwell’s
hands.

‘I suppose I had better take care of this?’ the Englishman answered
carelessly. ‘I got so exasperated with Salvarini, that I came near
pitching the sacred moidore out of the window. I presume, it would not
be wise?’

‘Not if you have any respect for a sound body,’ Le Gautier returned
dryly. ‘I gather that Luigi has been talking largely about the
sacredness of the mission. Well, he is young yet, and the gilt of his
enthusiasm does not yet show the nickel beneath, which reminds me. Did
my ears deceive me, or were we going to hear a story?’

‘It is no story,’ the Italian replied, ‘merely a little family record,
to show you how even patriots are not exempt from tyranny.—You remember
my brother, Visci? and his wife. He settled down, after fighting years
for his country, not many miles from here. Living with him was his
wife’s father, an aged man, universally beloved—a being who had not a
single enemy in the world. Well, time went on, till one day, without
the slightest warning, the old fellow was arrested for compliance in
some so-called plot. My brother’s wife clung round her father’s neck;
and there, in my brother’s sight, he saw his wife stricken brutally
down by the ruffianly soldiers—dead; dead, mind—her only crime that
little act of affection—killed by order of the officer in charge. But
revenge followed. Paulo shot three of the scoundrels dead, and left
the officer, as he thought, dying. Since then, I have never heard
of Paulo.—And now, do you wonder why I am a Socialist, with my hand
against all authority and order, when it is backed up by such cowardly,
unprovoked oppression as this?’

For a time the listeners remained silent, watching the twinkling stars
as they peeped out one by one, nothing to be seen now of each but
the glowing tip of his cigarette as the blue smoke drifted from the
casement.

‘You do not think that your brother and Paulo Lucci, the celebrated
brigand we hear so much of, are the same men?’ Visci asked at length.
‘People have said so, you understand.’

‘I have heard such a tale,’ Salvarini replied sardonically. ‘The affair
created quite a stir in the province at the time; but the peasants do
me too much homage in connecting my name with so famous a character.
Our Italian imagination does not rest at trifles.’

‘Pleasant for the officer who ordered them to strike down your
brother’s wife,’ Le Gautier drawled, as he emitted a delicate curl of
smoke from his nostrils. ‘Did you ever hear the name of the fellow?’

‘Curiously enough, his name is the same as yours, though I cannot be
sure, as it is five years ago now. He was a Frenchman, likewise.’

‘Moral—let all Le Gautiers keep out of Paulo Lucci’s way,’ Maxwell
exclaimed, rising to his feet. ‘We do not pay you the compliment
of believing you are the same man; but these brigands are apt to
strike first and inquire after. Of course, this is always presuming
Salvarini’s brother and Paulo Lucci are one.—I am going as far as the
Villa Salvarino. Who says ay to that proposal?—The ayes have it.’

They rose to their feet with one accord, and after changing their coats
for something more respectable, trooped down the stairs.

‘You will not forget about Friday?’ Visci reminded. ‘I shall ask Sir
Geoffrey and his daughter to come. We are going down to my little place
on that day.—Will you make one, Le Gautier?’

‘A thousand thanks, my dear Visci,’ the Frenchman exclaimed; ‘but
much as I should like it, the thing is impossible. I am literally
overwhelmed in the most important work.’

A general laugh followed this solemn assertion.

‘I am sorry,’ Visci returned politely. ‘You have never been there. I do
not think you have ever seen my sister?’

‘Never,’ Le Gautier replied with an inexplicable smile. ‘It is a
pleasure to come.’




AN ATLANTIC VOYAGE—AS IT WAS AND AS IT IS.


When Samuel Johnson said, ‘A ship is a prison with a chance of being
drowned,’ he in that aphorism gave expression to the opinion generally
entertained by landsmen in his day. In fact, the discomforts, and even
privations, which sea-travelling then involved were such that very few
persons were willing to expose themselves to them, save when compelled
by imperative circumstances to do so.

When I crossed the Atlantic in 1841, for the first time, the condition
of things had, in the three-quarters of a century which had elapsed
since Johnson’s time, measurably improved; but the _désagrémens_ to
which passengers were even then subjected were numerous. No regular
steam communication between Great Britain and the United States was
in existence. The _Sirius_ and the _Great Western_ had indeed crossed
the ocean in 1838, and the latter vessel had continued her trips at
irregular intervals. But for some little time subsequently, no other
steamer attempted to follow her example, the Cunard line not having
been established until 1842.

At the period of which I speak, the sailing packets which ran between
London and New York, and between Liverpool and that port, were ships
of five to six hundred tons burden. The staterooms—as the little
cabins ranged on either side of the saloon were termed—were below the
sea-level. They were incommodious, dark, and ill ventilated. In fact,
the only light they enjoyed was that furnished by small pieces of
ground glass inserted in the deck overhead, and from the fan-lights
in the doors opening to the saloon, and this was so poor, that the
occupants of the staterooms could not even dress themselves without
making use of a lamp. The sole ventilation of them was that afforded
by the removal of the saloon skylights, which, of course, could only
be done in fine weather. The consequence was that the closeness of the
atmosphere in the staterooms was at all times most unpleasant; whilst
the smell of the bilge-water was so offensive as to create nausea,
independent of that arising from the motion of the vessel. In winter,
on the other hand, the cold was frequently severe. There was, it is
true, a stove in the saloon, but the heat from it scarcely made itself
appreciably felt in the side-cabins.

In other matters there was the same absence of provision for the
comfort of the passengers. The fresh water required for drinking and
cooking purposes was carried in casks; and when the ship had a full
cargo, many of these were placed on deck, with the result that their
contents were sometimes impregnated with salt water from the waves
shipped in heavy weather. At all times, the water was most unpalatable,
it being muddy, and filled with various impurities from the old
worm-eaten barrels in which it was kept. Not only was the water bad,
but the supply occasionally proved inadequate; and when the voyage
was an unusually long one, the necessity would arise of placing the
passengers upon short allowance.

There was always a cow on board; but there was no other milk to be
had than what she supplied, no way of preserving it having then been
discovered. Canned fruit and vegetables were equally unknown. There
was commonly a fair provision of mutton and pork, live sheep and pigs
being carried; but of other fresh meat and of fish, the stock was
generally exhausted by the time the vessel had been a few days at sea,
refrigerators at that period not having been invented.

But the arrangements on board these ships were defective in much
more important matters than in not providing a good table for the
passengers. The boats—even when they were seaworthy, which frequently
was not the case—were so few in number that, in the event of shipwreck,
there was no possibility of their holding more than a third of the
souls on board. The longboat, indeed, was practically useless in an
emergency, as it was almost invariably filled up with sheds for the
accommodation for the cow, sheep, and pigs; and it would have been
several hours’ work to clear the boat and launch her.

The law did not then render it compulsory for every vessel crossing
the Atlantic to carry a surgeon, and the owners of the various lines
of American packets would not incur the expense of providing one. The
consequence was that, if an accident occurred or there was serious
illness on board, no medical assistance was available. When I was
returning to Europe in the _Mediator_ in 1842, a sailor fell from
one of the yards, badly fracturing his right leg. The commander of
the vessel was a Yankee—that is, a native of one of the New England
States—and he had the ingenuity and readiness of resource which are
characteristic of the people of that section of the Union. He so
admirably set the injured limb with splints, that, when the ship
arrived at London and the man was taken to Bartholomew Hospital, the
officials of that institution highly complimented Captain Morgan upon
the workmanlike manner in which he had performed the operation. The
fact, however, remains, that but for the purely fortuitous circumstance
of the commander of the vessel having been able to deal with the case,
the result of there being no surgeon on board must have been that the
injured man would either have died, or been a cripple for life.

If the cabin passengers had good cause to complain that neither their
safety nor their comfort was sufficiently studied, the condition of the
steerage passengers was infinitely worse. Men, women, and children were
huddled like sheep in the quarters assigned them, no separation of
the sexes being attempted. The berths, which ran on either side of the
vessel, were not inclosed, and were without curtains. The women were
compelled to dress and undress before the eyes of the male passengers,
and exposed to their coarse remarks and scurrilous jests. Indeed, the
moral downfall of many a poor girl was to be attributed to her feelings
of decency and modesty having been blunted by her painful experiences
during the voyage.

The steerage passengers were required to both supply and cook their
own provisions. There was commonly a fierce struggle for a place at
the galley fire, in which the sick and feeble necessarily went to the
wall; and sometimes several days would pass without any warm food being
obtained by those who were most in need of it. Again, when there was
a storm, or even when the ship experienced heavy weather, the hatches
were closed, rendering the atmosphere of the steerage almost stifling.
In fact, the condition and treatment of this class of passengers were
simply abominable, and such as to reflect deep discredit upon the
government for allowing so many years to elapse ere any attempt was
made to deal with the evil.

Now, all is changed. The steamers which at the present day cross the
Atlantic are vessels ranging from four to seven thousand tons burden;
and the arrangements on board of them are excellent in all respects.
Besides the lifeboats—which are numerous, large, and built on the most
approved models—there are rafts which, in case of necessity, can be
got ready and launched in a few minutes. In the event, too, of a fire
breaking out in any part of the ship, the appliances for extinguishing
it are of the most thorough character. In fact, the provision made for
the safety of the passengers would be all that could be desired if
every ship carried a sufficient number of boats to accommodate, in case
of disaster, _every_ passenger, even when her complement was full. Note
the late disaster to the _Oregon_.

The comfort of the travelling public is now carefully studied. The
cabins for the first-class passengers are placed amidships, where the
motion of the vessel is least felt, instead of, as formerly, at the
stern. The staterooms are commodious, handsomely furnished, thoroughly
ventilated, and heated by steam. The saloon, which is spacious and
well lighted, contains a piano, a small library, bagatelle tables,
chess, &c., for the use of the passengers. There are also smoking
and reading rooms and bathrooms, supplied with hot as well as cold
water. The table is so luxuriantly spread that there is scarcely a
delicacy which can be obtained in the best hotels in London, found
lacking on board these steamers. The supply of fresh water—furnished
by condensers—is practically unlimited; whilst that which is required
for drinking purposes is in summer cooled with ice, of which a large
stock is provided. A surgeon is invariably carried, the law rendering
it obligatory to do so; and his services are at the disposal of any of
the passengers who needs them without the payment of any fee.

Nor have the steerage passengers failed to participate in the altered
condition of things. Instead of their being crowded together in the
badly ventilated and unhealthy quarters assigned to them, as was
formerly the case, it is now compulsory for a fixed cubic space
to be allotted to each individual. Not only, too, are the berths
inclosed—which is greatly conducive to the preservation of decency—but
the single women occupy a separate compartment, in the charge of a
matron. But one of the greatest improvements which has taken place in
the condition of occupants of the steerage has been effected by the
Act, passed a few years ago, requiring cooked provisions being found by
the owners of the ship; and although the passage-money is necessarily
higher than it was under the old system, this drawback is more than
compensated by the comfort which results from the present arrangement.

In conclusion, I may say that, indulging in a retrospect upon my
experiences for the last forty years—during which period I have crossed
the Atlantic ten times—I have been forcibly struck by the contrast
the peril, tedium, and inconveniences then attendant upon an Atlantic
voyage afford to the safety, rapidity, and comfort with which it is now
accomplished.




IN ALL SHADES.


CHAPTER XLIV.

Next morning, Tom Dupuy, Esquire, of Pimento Valley, Westmoreland,
Trinidad, mounted his celebrated chestnut pony Sambo Gal at his own
door, unchained his famous Cuban bloodhound Slot from his big kennel,
and rode up, with cousinly and lover-like anxiety, to Orange Grove, to
inquire after Nora’s and her father’s safety. Nora was up by the time
he reached the house, pale and tired, and with a frightful headache;
but she went to meet him at the front door, and dropped him a very low
old-fashioned obeisance.

‘Good-morning, Tom Dupuy!’ she said coldly. ‘So you’ve come at last to
look us up, have you? It’s very good of you, I’m sure, very good of
you. They tell me you didn’t come last night, when half the gentlemen
from all the country round rode up in hot haste with guns and pistols
to take care of papa and me. But it’s very good of you, to be sure, now
the danger’s well over, to come round in such a friendly fashion and
drop us a card of kind inquiries.’

Even Tom Dupuy, born boor and fool as he was, flushed up crimson at
that galling taunt from a woman’s lips, ‘Now that the danger’s well
over.’ To do him justice, Tom Dupuy was indeed no coward; that was
the one solitary vice of which no fighting Dupuy that ever lived
could with justice be suspected for a moment. He would have faced
and fought a thousand black rioters single-handed, like a thousand
fiends, himself, in defence of his beloved vacuum pans and dearly
cherished saccharometers and boiling-houses. His devotion to molasses
would no doubt have been proof against the very utmost terrors of
death itself. But the truth is that exact devotion in question was the
real cause of his apparent remissness on the previous evening. All
night long, Tom Dupuy had been busy rousing and arming his immediate
house-servants, despatching messengers to Port-of-Spain for the aid of
the constabulary, and preparing to defend the cut canes with the very
last drop of his blood and the very last breath in his stolid body. At
the first sight of the conflagration at Orange Grove, he guessed at
once that ‘the niggers had risen;’ and he proceeded without a moment’s
delay to fortify roughly Pimento Valley against the chance of a similar
attack. Now that he came to look back calmly upon his heroic exertions,
however, it did begin to strike him somewhat forcibly that he had
perhaps shown himself slightly wanting in the affection of a cousin
and the ardour of a lover. He bit his lip awkwardly for a second, with
a sheepish look; then he glanced up suddenly and said with clumsy
self-vindication: ‘It isn’t always those that deserve the best of you
that get the best praise or thanks, in this world of ours, I fancy,
Nora!’

‘I fail to understand you,’ Nora answered with quiet dignity.

‘Why, just you look here, Nora: it’s somehow like this, I tell you
plainly. Here was I last night down at Pimento. I saw by the blaze
that these nigger fellows must have broken loose, and must be burning
down the Orange Grove cane-houses; so there I stopped all night long,
working away as hard as I could work—no nigger could have worked
harder—trying to protect your father’s canes and the vacuum pans from
these murdering, howling rebels. And now, when I come round here this
morning to tell you, after having made sure the whole year’s crop at
old Pimento, one of your fine English flouts is all the thanks I get
from you, miss, for my night’s labour.’

Nora laughed—laughed in spite of herself—laughed aloud a simple, merry,
girlish laugh of pure amusement—it was so comical. There they had
all stood last night in imminent danger of their lives, and of what
is dearer than life itself, surrounded by a frantic, yelling mob of
half-demented, rum-maddened negroes—her father left for dead upon the
piazza steps, Harry Noel hacked with cutlasses before her very eyes,
herself trampled under foot in her swoon upon the drawing-room floor by
the naked soles of those negro rioters—and now this morning, Cousin Tom
comes up quietly when all was over to tell her at his ease how he had
taken the most approved precautions for the protection of his beloved
vacuum pans. Every time she thought of it, Nora laughed again, with a
fresh little outburst of merry laughter, more and more vehemently, just
as though her father were not at that very moment lying within between
life and death, as still and motionless as a corpse, in his own bedroom.

There is nothing more fatal to the possible prospects of a suitor,
however hopeless, than to be openly laughed at by the lady of his
choice at a critical moment—nothing more galling to a man under any
circumstances than patent ridicule from a beautiful woman. Tom Dupuy
grew redder and redder every minute, and stammered and stuttered in
helpless speechlessness; and still Nora looked at him and laughed, ‘for
all the world,’ he thought to himself, ‘as if I were just nobody else
but the clown at the theatre.’

But that was not indeed the stage on which Tom Dupuy really performed
the part of clown with such distinguished success in his unconscious
personation.

‘How’s your father this morning?’ he asked at last gruffly, with an
uneasy shuffle. ‘I hear the niggers cut him about awfully last night,
and next door to killed him with their beastly cutlasses.’

Nora drew herself up and checked her untimely laughter with a sudden
sense of the demands of the situation, as she answered once more in her
coldest tone: ‘My father is getting on as well as we can expect, thank
you, Mr Tom Dupuy. We are much obliged to you for your kind inquiries.
He slept the night pretty well, all things considered, and is partially
conscious again this morning. He was very nearly killed last night, as
you say; and if it hadn’t been for Mr Noel and Mr Hawthorn, who kindly
came up at once and tried to protect us, he would have been killed
outright, and I with him. But Mr Noel and Mr Hawthorn had happily
no vacuum pans and no trash-houses to engage their first and chief
attention.’

Tom Dupuy sneered visibly. ‘Hm!’ he said. ‘Two coloured fellows! Upon
my conscience! the Dupuys of Trinidad must be coming down in the world,
it seems, when they have to rely for help in a nigger rising upon two
coloured fellows.’

‘If they’d had to rely upon white men like you,’ Nora answered angrily,
flushing crimson as she spoke, ‘they’d have been burnt last night upon
the ashes of the cane-house, and not a soul would have stirred a hand
or foot to save them or protect them.’

Tom laughed to himself a sharp, short, malicious laugh. ‘Ha, ha!’ he
said, ‘my fine English-bred lady, so that’s the way the wind blows,
is it? I may be a fool, and I know you think me one’—Nora bowed
immediately a sarcastic acquiescence—‘but I’m not such a fool as not
to see through a woman’s face into a woman’s mind like an open window.
I heard that that woolly-headed Hawthorn man had been over here and
made a most cowardly time-serving speech to the confounded niggers,
giving way to all their preposterous demands in the most outrageous
and ridiculous fashion; but I didn’t hear that the other coloured
fellow—your fine-spoken English friend Noel’—he hissed the words out
with all the concentrated strength of his impotent hatred—‘had been
up here too, to put his own finger into the pie when the crust was
burning. Just like his impudence! the conceited coxcomb!’

‘Mr Noel is lying inside, in our own house here, this very moment,
dangerously wounded,’ Nora cried, her face now like a crimson peony;
‘and he was cut down by the negroes last night, standing up bravely,
alone and single-handed, with no weapon but a little riding-whip,
facing those mad rebels like an angry tiger, and trying to protect me
from their insults and their cutlasses; while you, sir, were stopping
snugly away down at Pimento Valley, looking carefully after your canes
and your vacuum pans. Tom Dupuy, if you dare to say another word, now
or ever, in my hearing against the man who tried to save my life from
those wild wretches at the risk of his own, as sure as I’m standing
here, sir, I give you fair notice I’ll chastise you myself, as soon
as I’ll look at you, you cowardly backbiter!—And now, Mr Dupuy,
good-morning.’

Tom saw the game was fairly up and his hand outwitted. It was no use
arguing with her any longer. ‘When she’s in this humour,’ he said
to himself philosophically, ‘you might as well try to reason with a
wounded lioness.’ So he whistled carelessly for Slot to fellow, lifted
his hat as politely as he was able—he didn’t pretend to all these fine
new-fangled town-bred ways of Harry Noel’s—jumped with awkward agility
upon his chestnut pony, turned its head in the direction of Pimento
Valley, and delivered a parting Parthian shot from a safe distance,
just as he got beyond the garden gateway. ‘Good-by, Miss Nora,’ he
said then savagely, raising his hat a second time with sarcastic
courtesy: ‘good-bye for ever. This is our last meeting. And remember
that I always said you’d finish in the end, for all your fine English
education, in marrying a confounded woolly-headed brown man!’


CHAPTER XLV.

All day long, Mr Dupuy lay speechless and almost motionless on his
bed, faint with loss of blood, and hovering between life and death,
but gradually mending by imperceptible degrees, as Marian fancied.
The brain had been terribly shaken, and there were some symptoms of
stunning and concussion; but the main trouble was merely the excessive
drain on the vascular system from the long-continued and unchecked
bleeding. About mid-day, he became hot and feverish, with a full pulse,
beating unsteadily. Macfarlane, who had remained in the house all
night, ordered him at once a rough mixture of sal-volatile, bismuth,
and whisky. ‘And whatever ye do,’ he said emphatically, ‘don’t forget
the whisky—a good wine-glassful in half a pint of cold water.’

Mr Dupuy was raised in the bed to drink the mixture, which he swallowed
mechanically in a half-unconscious fashion; and then a bandage of
pounded ice was applied to his forehead, and leeches were hastily
sent for to Port-of-Spain to reduce the inflammation. Long before the
leeches had time to arrive, however, Nora, who was watching by his
bedside, observed that his eyes began to open more frequently than
before, and that gleams of reason seemed to come over them every now
and again for brief intervals. ‘Give him some more whisky,’ Macfarlane
said in his decided tone; ‘there’s nothing like it, nothing like it—in
these cases—especially for a man of Dupuy’s idiosyncrasy.’

At that moment Mr Dupuy’s lips moved feebly, and he tried to turn with
an effort on the pillow.

‘Hush, hush!’ Nora cried; ‘he wants to speak. He has something to tell
us. What is it he’s saying? Listen, listen!’

Mr Dupuy’s lips moved again, and a faint voice proceeded slowly from
the depths of his bosom: ‘Not fit to hold a candle to old Trinidad rum,
I tell you, doctor.’

Macfarlane rubbed his hand against his thigh with evident pleasure and
satisfaction. ‘He’s wrong there,’ he murmured, ‘undoubtedly wrong, as
every judicious person could easily tell him; but no matter. He’ll do
now, when once he’s got life enough left in him to contradict one. It
always does a Dupuy good to contradict other people. Let it be rum,
then—a wine-glassful of Mr Tom’s best stilling.’

Almost as soon as the rum was swallowed, Mr Dupuy seemed to mend
rapidly for the passing moment. He looked up and saw Nora. ‘That’s well
then,’ he said with a sigh, recollecting suddenly the last night’s
adventures. ‘So they didn’t kill you after all, Nora?’

Nora stooped down with unwonted tenderness and kissed him fervently.
‘No, papa,’ she said; ‘they didn’t; nor you either.’

Mr Dupuy paused for a moment; then he looked up a second time, and
asked, with extraordinary vehemence for an invalided man: ‘Is this
riot put down? Have they driven off the niggers? Have they taken the
ringleaders? Have they hanged Delgado?’

‘Hush, hush!’ Nora cried, a little appalled in her cooler mood, after
all that had happened, at this first savage outcry for vengeance. ‘You
mustn’t talk, papa; you mustn’t excite yourself. Yes, yes; the riot
is put down, and Delgado—Delgado is dead. He has met with his due
punishment.’

‘That’s well!’ Mr Dupuy exclaimed, with much gusto, in spite of his
weakness, rubbing his hands feebly underneath the bedclothes. ‘Serves
the villain right. I’m glad they’ve hanged him. Nothing on earth comes
up to martial law in these emergencies; and hang ’em on the spot, say
I, as fast as you catch ’em, red-handed! Flog ’em first, and hang ’em
afterwards!’

Marian looked down at him speechless, with a shudder of horror; but
Nora put her face between her hands, overwhelmed with awe, now her own
passion had burst itself out, at that terrible outburst of the old bad
barbaric spirit of retaliation. ‘Don’t let him talk so, dear,’ she
cried to Marian. ‘O Marian, Marian, I’m so ashamed of myself! I’m so
ashamed of us all—us Dupuys, I mean; I wish we were all more like you
and Mr Hawthorn.’

‘You must not speak, Mr Dupuy,’ Macfarlane said, interposing gently,
with his rough-and-ready Scotch tenderness. ‘Ye’re not strong enough
for conversation yet, I’m thinking. Ye must just take a wee bit sleep
till the fever’s reduced. Ye’ve had a narrow escape of your life, my
dear sir; and ye must not excite yourself the minute ye’re getting a
trifle better.’

The old man lay silent for a few minutes longer; then he turned again
to Nora, and without noticing Marian’s presence, said more vehemently
and more viciously than ever: ‘I know who set them on to this, Nora.
It wasn’t their own doing; it was coloured instigation. They were put
up to it—I know they were put up to it—by that scoundrel Hawthorn—a
seditious, rascally, malevolent lawyer, if ever there was one. I hope
they’ll hang him too—he deserves it soundly—flog him and hang him as
soon as they catch him!’

‘O papa, papa!’ Nora cried, growing hotter and redder in the face than
ever, and clutching Marian’s hand tightly in an agony of distress and
shamefacedness, ‘you don’t know what you’re saying! You don’t know what
you owe to him! It was Mr Hawthorn who finally pacified and dispersed
the negroes; and if it hadn’t been for his coolness and his bravery, we
wouldn’t one of us have been alive to say so this very minute!’

Mr Dupuy coughed uneasily, and muttered to himself once more in a
vindictive undertone: ‘Hang him when they catch him!—hang him when
they catch him! I’ll speak to the governor about it myself, and prove
to him conclusively that if it hadn’t been for this fellow Hawthorn,
the niggers’d never have dreamed of kicking up such a hullabaloo and
bobbery!’

‘But, papa,’ Nora began again, her eyes full of tears, ‘you don’t
understand. You’re all wrong about it. If it hadn’t been for that dear,
good, brave Mr Hawthorn’——

Marian touched her lightly on the shoulder. ‘Never mind about it, Nora,
darling,’ she whispered consolingly, with a womanly caress to the poor
shrinking girl at her elbow; ‘don’t trouble him with the story now.
By-and-by, when he’s better, he’ll come to hear the facts; and then
he’ll know what Edward’s part was in the whole matter. Don’t distress
yourself about it, darling, now, after all that has happened. I know
your father’s feelings too well to take amiss anything he may happen to
say in the heat of the moment.’

‘If you speak another word before six o’clock, to-night, Dupuy,’
Macfarlane put in with stern determination, ‘I’ll just clear every
soul that knows ye out of the room at once, and leave you alone to the
tender mercies of old Aunt Clemmy. Turn over on your side, man, when
your doctor tells ye to, and try to get a little bit of refreshing
sleep before the evening.’

Mr Dupuy obeyed in a feeble fashion; but he still muttered doggedly to
himself as he turned over: ‘Catch him and hang him! Prove it to the
governor!’

As he spoke, Edward beckoned Marian out into the drawing-room through
the open door, to show her a note which had just been brought to him
by a mounted orderly. It was a few hasty lines, written in pencil,
that very morning by the governor himself, thanking Mr Hawthorn in
his official capacity for his brave and conciliatory conduct on the
preceding evening, whereby a formidable and organised insurrection had
been nipped in the bud, and a door left open for future inquiry, and
redress of any possible just grievances on the part of the rioters and
discontented negroes. ‘It is to your firmness and address alone,’ the
governor wrote, ‘that the white population of the island of Trinidad
owes to-day its present security from fire and bloodshed.’

Meanwhile, preparations had been made for preventing any possible fresh
outbreak of the riot that evening; and soldiers and policemen were
arriving every moment at the smouldering site of the recent fire, and
forming a regular plan of defence against the remote chance of a second
rising. Not that any such precautions were really necessary; for the
negroes, deprived of their head in Delgado, were left utterly without
cohesion or organisation; and Edward’s promise to go to England and
see that their grievances were properly ventilated had had far more
effect upon their trustful and excitable natures than the display
of ten regiments of soldiers in marching order could possibly have
produced. The natural laziness of the negro mind, combining with their
confidence in the young judge, and their fervent faith in the justice
of Providence under the most apparently incongruous circumstances,
had made them all settle down at once into their usual listless
_laissez-faire_ condition, as soon as the spur of Delgado’s fiery
energy and exhortation had ceased to stimulate them. ‘It all right,’
they chattered passively among themselves. ‘Mistah Hawtorn gwine to
’peak to Missis Queen fur de poor naygur; an’ de Lard in hebben gwine
to watch ober him, an’ see him doan’t suffer no more wrong at de heavy
hand ob de proud buckra.’

When the time arrived to make preparations for the night’s watching
and nursing, Nora came to Marian once more with her spirit vexed by
a sore trouble. ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘this is a dreadful thing about
poor Mr Noel having to go on stopping here. It’s very unfortunate he
couldn’t have been nursed through his illness at your house or at
Captain Castello’s. He’ll be down in bed for at least a week or two, in
all probability; and it won’t be possible to move him out of this until
he’s better.’

‘Well, darling?’ Marian answered, with an inquiring smile.

‘Well, you see, Marian, it wouldn’t be so awkward, of course, if poor
papa wasn’t ill too, because then, if I liked, I could go over and stop
with you at Mulberry until Mr Noel was quite recovered. But as I shall
have to stay here, naturally, to nurse papa, why’——

‘Why, what then, Nora?’

Nora hesitated. ‘Why, you see, darling,’ she went on timidly at last,
‘people will say that as I’ve helped to nurse Mr Noel through a serious
illness’——

‘Yes, dear?’

‘O Marian, don’t be so stupid! Of course, in that case, everybody’ll
expect me—to—to—accept him.’

Marian looked down deep into her simple, little, girlish eyes with a
curious smile of arch womanliness. ‘And why not, Nora?’ she asked at
last with perfect simplicity.

Nora blushed. ‘Marian—Marian—dear Marian,’ she said at length, after a
long pause, ‘you are so good—you are so kind—you are so helpful to me.
I wish I could say to you all I feel, but I can’t; and even if I did,
you couldn’t understand it—you couldn’t fathom it. You don’t know what
it is, Marian, to be born a West Indian with such a terrible load of
surviving prejudices. O darling, darling, we are all so full of wicked,
dreadful, unjust feelings! I wish I could be like you, dear, I wish
indeed I could; but I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, somehow!’

Marian stroked her white little hand with sisterly tenderness in
perfect silence for a few minutes; then she said, rather reproachfully:
‘So you wish Mr Noel wasn’t going to be nursed under your father’s roof
at all, Nora! That’s a very poor return, isn’t it, my darling, for all
his bravery and heroism and devotion?’

Nora drew back like one bitten suddenly by a venomous creature, and
putting her hand in haste on her breast, as if it pained her terribly,
answered, with a little deep-drawn sigh: ‘It isn’t that, Marian—it
isn’t that, darling. You know what it is, dear, as well as I do. Don’t
say it’s that, my sweet; oh, don’t say it’s that, or you’ll kill me,
you’ll kill me with remorse and anger! You’ll make me hate myself,
if you say I’m ungrateful. But I’m not ungrateful, Marian—I’m not
ungrateful. I admire, and—and love him; yes, I love him, for the way
he acted here last evening.’ And as she spoke, she buried her head
fervidly, with shame and fear, in Marian’s bosom.

Marian smoothed her hair tenderly for a few minutes longer, this time
again in profound silence, and then she spoke once more very softly,
almost at Nora’s ear, in a low whisper. ‘I went this morning into Mr
Noel’s room,’ she said, ‘darling, just when he was first beginning to
recover consciousness; and as he saw me, he turned his eyes up to me
with a beseeching look, and his lips seemed to be moving, as if he
wanted ever so much to say something. So I stooped down and listened to
catch the words he was trying to frame in his feverish fashion. He said
at first just two words—“Miss Dupuy;” and then he spoke again, and said
one only—“Nora.” I smiled, and nodded at him to tell him it was all
well; and he spoke again, quite audibly: “Have they hurt her? Have they
hurt her?” I said: “No; she’s as well as I am!” and his eyes seemed to
grow larger as I said it, and filled with tears; and I knew what he
meant by them, Nora—I knew what he meant by them. A little later, he
spoke to me again, and he said: “Mrs Hawthorn, I may be dying; and if
I die, tell her—tell Nora—that last night, when she stood beside me
there so bravely, I loved her, I loved her better even than I had ever
loved her!” He won’t die, Nora; but still I’ll break his confidence,
darling, and tell it you this evening.—O Nora, Nora! you say you wish
to goodness you hadn’t got all these dreadful, wicked, West Indian
feelings. You’re brave enough—I know that—no woman braver. Why don’t
you have the courage to break through them, then, and come away with
Edward and me to England, and accept poor Mr Noel, who would gladly
give his very life a thousand times over for you, darling?’

Nora burst into tears once more, and nestled, sobbing, closer and
closer upon Marian’s shoulder.

‘My darling,’ she cried, ‘I’m too wicked! I only wish I could feel as
you do!’




SWIMMING.


The extent to which the power of swimming is cultivated amongst
Englishmen is scarcely creditable to the citizens of a country which
boasts both that it is the greatest naval power, and that it possesses
infinitely the largest mercantile marine on the face of the earth.
It is only within recent years that it has been anything but a rare
exception for a sailor to be able to swim. Amongst old naval officers
it is still remembered as a notable occurrence that some fifty years
ago, Lord Ingestre, when in command of a ship on the Mediterranean
station, refused to rate as an able seaman any man who could not swim,
and that from time to time other captains followed his example. That
this should be still recalled to mind shows how rare an accomplishment
swimming was amongst sailors in past times; and if this has now been
remedied in the royal navy, where, at the present day, swimming is
taught, a similar improvement has by no means taken place in the
mercantile marine, in which a seaman who can swim is still a curiosity.
Probably the same remark would apply to our ‘long-shore’ population,
to our lightermen and professional watermen, and to the inhabitants
of our numerous canal-boats. And yet English people of both sexes and
of the average type seem to take to the water as naturally as a duck.
The difference is that they delight to disport themselves on the waves
instead of in them. Every seaport, every suitable stretch of river,
every lake, has its Rowing Club; Cockneys, whose ideas of rowing
are original if not elegant, and whose notions of boat-management
constitute a minus quantity, make summer Sundays and the August Bank
Holiday hideous on the Thames in the neighbourhood of Hampton Court;
and if ’Arry takes his ’Arriet for a day’s excursion to some one of
the seaside resorts which they patronise, the enjoyment of both is
incomplete if they do not court the woes of sea-sickness by going for a
sail.

In face of this national taste for aquatic pursuits, it is a painfully
suggestive reflection that comparatively few Englishmen, and still
fewer Englishwomen, possess sufficient knowledge of swimming to save
their own lives if they were suddenly plunged into deep water, and
were called upon to support themselves for, perhaps, five minutes by
their own exertions. No doubt, the power of swimming is a far more
common accomplishment amongst men than it was a quarter of a century
ago. Swimming has shared in the athletic revival which has marked the
period, and has found its devotees amongst the practical adherents
of muscular Christianity; but if, as some seem to think, there are
not wanting signs that the rage for athletic pursuits has passed its
meridian, and has begun its decline, swimming will probably suffer,
in common with other sports, from the reaction. No doubt, too, our
changeful English climate, our cold waters, are against this particular
form of exercise. In the tideless, sun-warmed Mediterranean, in the
coral-bound lagoons of the Southern Ocean, or by the grove-clad banks
of Burmese rivers, swimming becomes both a luxury and a second nature.
Let those testify who remember the untrammelled urchins flinging
themselves from the bows of boats in Malta harbour to dive for and
secure the coins flung from the deck of some newly arrived vessel, or
disporting themselves day after day in the fetid, drain-polluted waters
of the Dockyard Creek. Let travellers bear witness who, with possibly
some humorous exaggeration, have told us how, in Burmah, toddling
infants can swim at least as soon as they can walk; and how a mother,
too busy for the time to look after her youngest born, will cheerfully
and confidently place it in the river, to amuse itself with its
playmates; and then, when she has leisure, will swim about among the
gamboling children until she has found her own and brought it to land.
In such a case as this there can be but little teaching; swimming must
come almost naturally—shall we say from hereditary instinct, developed
by the constant calls made upon it, and transmitted from generation to
generation?

The lower temperature of the sea, or of fresh water fully exposed to
the air, in our latitudes will doubtless always prevent Englishmen,
as a nation, from becoming expert swimmers; but the common-sense of
a people which prides itself on its possession of the quality should
suffice to evade or overcome this natural obstacle so far as to
release us from at least a large proportion of the grim death-tribute
which we pay every year to our national ignorance. To any one who
has noted the characteristic recklessness with which people intrust
themselves to frail craft with whose management they are ludicrously
unacquainted, it may perhaps be a matter for surprise that this tribute
is not more heavy than it is; but certainly not a few of the deaths
by drowning that go to swell our annual calendar of disasters can
only be properly called accidents if we extend the signification of
the word so as to include those misfortunes which, though unforeseen,
arise from perfectly preventable causes. The climate of Paris and the
north of France is not warmer than that of England, but the proportion
of Parisians—perhaps even of Frenchmen in general—who can swim is
certainly greater than that of Englishmen. When it was pointed out to
the librarian at Boulogne-sur-Mer that the library did not possess a
single work on swimming, he replied good-humouredly: ‘Ah! c’est comme
ça, Monsieur—on apprend naturellement ici;’ and in Thévenot’s _Art de
Nager, démontré par Figures, avec des Avis pour se baigner utilement_,
published in Paris in or about 1696, some of the plates represent
ladies swimming, and would thus seem to show that with Frenchwomen it
has been a custom for centuries. In the year 1859, Miss Powers, the
secretary to the Ladies’ National Association for the diffusion of
sanitary knowledge, published a twopenny pamphlet entitled, _Why do not
Women Swim?—a Voice from many Waters_; but the question thus propounded
was not satisfactorily answered, and an Englishwoman who can swim still
remains a rarity—how great a one, any one may easily ascertain for
himself by watching the small crowd that speedily assembles to watch a
lady-swimmer at any seaside resort.

In extenuation of our national ignorance of swimming, we have not
even the excuse that the acquisition of the art is difficult. On the
contrary, it is one of the most easily acquired of accomplishments.
The one secret of it is confidence, though, like most other things,
it is best learned young. There is no reason why it should not—on
the contrary, on the ground both of health and of saving of life,
there is every reason why it should—be made a necessary part of the
education of young people of both sexes and of all classes. At Eton
and in some other schools, it is systematically taught; but it would
be far cheaper and more useful than many of the things for which
parents cheerfully pay as ‘extras’ in private establishments; whilst
in these days, when we are concerning ourselves so greatly about the
education of the masses, and paying such a price for the privilege,
swimming would certainly be a far more useful subject to form one of
the items of Board School education than many of the things for which
the long-suffering ratepayer is now compelled to put his hand in his
pocket. As a certain William Woodbridge remarked in a manual published
by him in 1864:

    To swim with ease and confidence and grace,
    Should in Great Britain have acknowledged place
    Of recognition; and by law decreed,
    Be taught as fully as we’re taught to read;
    Forming a part in education’s rule
    In every college and in every school.

This is the merest doggerel. In fact, the recommendation of the book
is not its literary merit, for it possesses none, but the fact that
it is what it professes to be—in itself a matter of congratulation
after the nonsense which, from time to time, it has been sought to
palm off upon the public by utilising the names of various prominent
swimmers who were far too ignorant to have written a line of the
compilations with which their names have been associated—and that the
instruction conveyed in it is thoroughly sound, practical, and to the
point. Woodbridge died in 1868; and the little manual has, I believe,
been long out of print, so that in saying this I may be acquitted of
the desire to give any one a gratuitous advertisement. I come back,
however, to my point: Why, provided there be water at hand, should not
every one be taught to swim during the period of his or her school
career; and how can parents reconcile it to their consciences to permit
their children to run a perfectly needless risk, by failing to have
them taught what they ought to learn as regularly and easily as they
learn to walk?




A TALE OF TWO KNAVERIES.


IN FOUR CHAPTERS.—CHAP. II.

Tom and Lucy Wedlake were two young people who had loved one another
well enough, and had had sufficient courage to marry on two hundred
pounds a year in the teeth of their respective families, both of which
were highly respectable, extremely proud, but very poor. Tom was a
Civil Service clerk, aged twenty-eight, whose salary had reached the
above annual sum; and it was insisted by all their relations that the
young people ought to wait until he should get his first class—which he
might hope to do about forty—and be in receipt of three hundred a year;
that being the smallest income upon which any lady and gentleman could
contrive to support existence together. The pair declined to accept
this view; so they got married; and Tom took his pretty gentle wife to
live in a little house on the north-east of the Regent’s Park, which he
had furnished with money lent him, free of interest, by a well-to-do
friend. For the rest, they were content to trust to youth, health, and
determination to keep from absolute destitution themselves and any
little folks who might hereafter come.

They did not, after all, find the struggle so terrible as it had been
described to them. They were not blessed—or burdened—with children
until they had been some time married, nor until circumstances
had put it into their power to maintain and educate them without
difficulty; and they had no expensive tastes. They were extremely fond
of one another, and lived in great happiness for one year. Then Uncle
Franklin took up his abode with them, and their happiness was for a
time considerably clouded. Mr Franklin was Lucy’s maternal uncle. In
his business—that of a wine-merchant—he had made money, which he had
increased by successful speculation. But in proportion as his purse
grew bulky, his manners deteriorated. The latter fact was forgiven in
consideration of the former; and by the time he retired, the master
of a moderate fortune, the family toleration of him had developed
into positive affection. Yet he was as we have seen him—rough, harsh,
coarse, selfish, and overbearing; faults which were easily overlooked
by the half-dozen sets of brothers and sisters, plentifully garnished
with nephews and nieces, who remembered only that Uncle Franklin was
old, rich, and a bachelor, and forgot the wine-merchant’s business,
and the continual snubs and insults which it had always been the old
gentleman’s pleasure to inflict upon his affectionate relatives. So
that, when he began to lament the loneliness of his age, and to hint
at his longings for the comforts and pleasures of family life, quite
a number of hospitable doors flew open to him on the instant. Uncle
Franklin entered all those doors, and left each of them before many
weeks were over, shaking the dust off his feet against the inhabitants.
In every house which he honoured with a brief sojourn, he comported
himself more like a fiend than a human being. His selfishness, his
ill-temper, his insolence, his coarseness, his tyranny, his general
powers of exasperation, would have been unendurable by any save
possible legatees, whose meekness, however, instead of disarming the
old savage, seemed to incite him to yet greater cruelties. The end was
the same in every case. He would fasten some perfectly unreasonable
quarrel upon his hosts, and fling out of the house in a furious
passion; subsequently amusing himself by inditing from his next abode
injurious replies to the petitions for pardon and reconciliation which
pursued him.

One day a cab drove up to Tom Wedlake’s door, and Uncle Franklin,
alighting therefrom, walked into the parlour, plumped himself into the
most comfortable armchair, and announced his intention of remaining,
adding that his luggage would arrive shortly. Lucy, in consternation,
entertained him as well as she could, which did not appear to be very
well, until her husband came home and they were able to take counsel
together.

Tom was at first entirely opposed to the whole thing; and being himself
of a somewhat fiery temper, hinted at forcible expulsion as a means of
solving the difficulty. But Lucy begged him to do nothing hastily, and
suggested that the self-invited guest might at all events remain for a
few days, until they should be able to see for themselves whether he
were in reality so black as he had been painted. And whether it was
the excellence of the little dinner which Lucy dished up, or the bright
though homely comfort around him, or certain indications in Tom’s look
and manner, the dreadful uncle, having come in like a lion, seemed
disposed to remain in the character of a lamb. He actually tried, in
the course of the evening, to pay Lucy a compliment on her good looks,
which only missed fire because no one could possibly have understood it.

Before he went to bed, Uncle Franklin repeated his proposal, offering
very liberal terms; and he lamented his lonely old age and the evident
disposition of all his relatives to quarrel with him, in a way which
went to Lucy’s soft heart. Even Tom, than whom there was no better
fellow breathing, was taken in so far that he forgot much that he
had heard of the woes attending Uncle Franklin’s irruption into any
household. It so happened that he had never troubled Lucy’s own family
circle, who alone of all his relatives lived at some distance from
London. The young couple sat late that night, discussing the matter
from all sides, and at last determined to make the trial. Lucy was
influenced partly by pity, partly by the hope, which had in it little
indeed of the mercenary element, that her uncle might leave her some
small legacy, so that her darling husband might not, after all, have
an altogether undowered bride. Tom, on his side, thought only of the
wife he loved; the additional income would enable her to keep another
servant, would relieve her from hard and menial labour, and would even
afford her some few little feminine luxuries which had hitherto been
beyond her reach. So each, for the other’s sake, was willing to bow the
back for the burden.

For a time all went well. The old man seemed to have made a sudden and
vast amendment. True, he was generally irritable, always selfish, and
sometimes expressed himself in rather odd language. But these, after
all, were mere eccentricities, failings of old age, results of a life
apart from all refining influences. They were not insupportable by two
people who had youth, health, and good spirits to their aid. And it was
evident that Uncle Franklin had taken a fancy to his niece. He liked to
have her sitting near him at work; and she made an exemplary listener
while he fought over again the battles of business, or indulged in
tirades against the baseness and ingratitude of mankind in general
and his other relations in particular. To Tom he was civil, and even
friendly after his fashion; altogether, he was an endurable inmate; and
his entertainers began to believe that the tales which they had heard
must at least have been highly coloured.

But after a month of this, Tom and Lucy began to discover that very
little present advantage was likely to result to them from the
arrangement, which was also irksome in many ways. Uncle Franklin paid
well; but then his ideas on the subjects of eating and drinking and
minor luxuries were on an even more liberal scale. In fact, after his
requirements in this way were provided for, and the expense of the
necessary additional servant met, there was little or no margin of
profit remaining. And the demands upon Lucy’s time and energies were
considerable. Uncle Franklin liked attention, and was unsparing in
exacting it; he was, in truth, something of an invalid, which perhaps
partly accounted for his temper and other peculiarities; so that Tom
began to think seriously of hinting to his guest that it was hardly
convenient to entertain him longer; when one evening the old man, being
alone with his host and in an unusually equable frame of mind, made an
explicit declaration of his intentions. Having first anathematised all
his other relations in a general but very hearty manner, he vowed that
his niece and her husband were so far the only people with whom he had
been able to get on; that he found himself more comfortable with them
than he had ever been in his life; and that, with their permission, he
proposed to end his days in their company. Tom looked a little awkward;
but Mr Franklin, as if guessing at what was in his mind, went on to
say that on this condition he should make Lucy his sole legatee; there
being, as he considered, no one who had a better claim upon him, or to
whom he would willingly leave a fraction of his wealth. Of course Tom
could only express his grateful acknowledgments. He was too poor, his
prospects were too uncertain for him to be justified in standing in the
light of his wife and possible children; so Uncle Franklin was given to
understand that his proposal was accepted.

Lucy was full of delight when her husband told her what had passed; but
Tom himself was by no means disposed to be sanguine.

‘It’s all very well, little woman,’ said he; ‘and so far he has behaved
with tolerable decency. But I don’t think he’s exactly a person to
be trusted. You see, he is very comfortable here, thanks to you, and
he is undeniably selfish. Naturally, he would like to stay; and some
men will say or promise anything to get what they want at the moment.
Let him stay, by all means; we must not throw away such a chance. But
don’t allow yourself to build too much on his promises, my dear. I,
for my part, shall not be at all surprised if he gets tired of us, and
quarrels with us, as he has with the rest; nor even if we find, after
he has ended his days here and got all he can out of us, that his money
is left elsewhere.’

Lucy said little, but she could not bring herself to believe in the
existence of such duplicity, and in her heart she was convinced of her
uncle’s _bona fides_. She even felt a little shocked that her husband,
whom she so loved and admired, could entertain such narrow and unworthy
suspicions; and she resolved that, so far as it depended on her, the
old man should have no just cause to reconsider his testamentary
intentions.

But it is to be feared that this attack of amiability, coupled with the
repression of the past few weeks, had put a strain upon Uncle Franklin
which he was unable to bear. Perhaps he thought that his munificent
promise entitled him to relax a little; perhaps he considered that he
had now made his footing in the house absolutely safe. However that
may have been, within a very few days after this conversation, the
old Adam began to appear in him once more. In Tom’s presence, he was
still on his good behaviour, having an instinctive fear of him, as
one not likely to submit tamely to oppression. But Tom was absent all
day at his office; and when Uncle Franklin had no one to withstand
him but a woman, and a very timid and gentle one to boot, he began
to ‘let himself out.’ His powers of fault-finding were perfectly
microscopic; he passed his time in devising vexations and enjoying
them with the keenest relish. As for his language, it daily increased
in majesty and ornament. He spoke to the servants in such a manner
that one of them—the new one—threatened to give warning, and was with
difficulty persuaded to remain; and Lucy was obliged to keep them as
much as possible from contact with her guest. He would begin with a
grumble at some trifle, round which he would gradually crystallise
his grievances, and work himself up by their contemplation into a
condition of insane rage, in which he would amble about the room like
an angry baboon, knocking down chairs and scattering verbal brimstone
all around. On these occasions, his liking for Lucy seemed to disappear
altogether, and he would indulge in the most unpleasant criticisms on
her appearance, her intellect, and her housekeeping abilities. Neither
would he spare her husband, whom he was accustomed to sum up with
similarly uncomplimentary results, inviting Lucy to report his comments
to their object—a course which, he understood very well, nothing would
induce her to take.

She bore it all heroically. She knew what the consequence would be if
the slightest hint of the treatment to which she was subjected should
ever reach Tom’s ears; so she contented herself with uncomplaining
good-temper so long as that was possible, and tears—which added fuel to
her uncle’s wrath—when endurance was pushed beyond its limits. Of her
own profit she thought little; or rather, the loss of her expectations
would have seemed to her humble and contented nature but a small price
to pay for release from her sufferings. But for Tom’s sake—in the hope
of seeing him relieved of that anxiety for her future which she knew to
be always present to his mind—for the sake of those who might hereafter
cling around her knees—she was prepared to endure silently the worst
that Uncle Franklin could do to her.

This state of things, however, came to a sudden end in a manner to her
most unwelcome. Her husband came home one afternoon much earlier than
usual. He had thought of late that his wife looked rather pale and
worn, and had resolved to treat her to a little dinner at a restaurant,
and to take her afterwards to the theatre, in the hope that the outing
might give her a much-needed fillip. The consequence was that he met
her unexpectedly, as she came out of the dining-room. Could she have
had a few moments’ time, she would have utilised it in sponging her
eyes and generally smoothing down her ruffled plumage, for this was
one of the days on which she had given way under Uncle Franklin’s
inflictions; her face was all blurred with tears, and she was sobbing
so that she could not immediately stop. All that he had heard of the
old man rushed into Tom’s mind, and he suspected at once the state of
the case. He took her up-stairs, and then and there had it all out
of her, with that gentle and perfectly unbending firmness which she
could never resist. He said no more than to bid his little wife dry
her eyes and be comforted, kissed her, and went down-stairs, quite
deaf to her feeble efforts to excuse the offender. Uncle Franklin had
a bad half-hour of it that afternoon; he probably heard more solid
truth than he had been favoured with for many years. It was never
exactly known what Tom said to him; but before bedtime that night, it
was quite understood by all the household that their guest was under
orders to quit within a week. Uncle Franklin did not utter a word all
the evening, but sat in his armchair, blinking furtively at his host,
feeling guilty and detected, but yet unrepentant. Before he went to
bed, he announced his intention of keeping to his own room for the
remainder of his stay, and requested that a fire might be lit there in
the morning. Also, he wrote a letter, and sent a servant to post it.
This letter it was which occasioned Mr Blackford’s visit.

That worthy solicitor prepared the will, which was very short and
simple, with the care demanded by a document of such importance to
his own interests. He even took the precaution to fair-copy it for
signature himself, so as to pay strict regard to the desire of the
testator that no inkling of its purport should leak out prematurely;
and with it he next day repaired to Camden Town, taking with him, as
requested, two witnesses—his own clerk, and a writer in the employ of
his law-stationer.

Mr Franklin chuckled a great deal as he wrote his name. ‘You can take
it away and keep it yourself, Blackford,’ said he, after the witnesses
had done their part and retired; ‘I’ll warrant you to take good care of
it.—By the way, I don’t think the date’s inserted.’

The solicitor began to unbutton the greatcoat, in an inner pocket of
which he had buried the precious piece of paper.

‘Oh, bother that! Do it when you get back. It’s your concern—not mine.
I’ve had enough of you for one while; and I feel confoundedly queer. I
suppose this business has upset me, though I don’t know why it should.
It wouldn’t have done so, once on a time.—Good-day.’ And, nothing loth,
Mr Blackford took himself off with his treasure.

The prize was his; but only conditionally. This unreliable testator
might alter his mind at any moment and undo his freak. Mr Blackford,
with all his faults, was not murderously inclined; but it is to be
feared that if some burglar in the pursuit of his calling had found it
necessary to eliminate Mr Franklin that night, and had confided his
intentions beforehand to the solicitor, something would have happened
to prevent that gentleman from warning the police. He re-entered his
office with a sigh. Never had it appeared to him so gloomy as at this
moment, when, with the possibility of future wealth in his pocket,
he found himself still confronted with the necessity of solving that
difficult and importunate bread-and-cheese problem.

Uncle Franklin had rightly estimated his chances of remaining an inmate
of the Wedlake nest. On the morning after the execution of his will, he
came down to the dining-room at breakfast-time, and then and there ate
humble-pie with the best grace he could assume. He apologised formally
to Lucy, and promised never to repeat his behaviour. He pleaded to Tom
his failing health and increasing age, and drew a moving picture of
himself as an outcast upon the world, at the mercy of landladies; and
he did this with a certain rough pathos which produced its effect. Tom
was very short and stern in his replies, and would commit himself to
nothing definite, but promised to think the matter over during the day.
And when he returned at night, Lucy the soft-hearted met him with an
appeal, before which he gave way.

‘He has been very humble and quiet all day,’ said she. ‘I think, my
boy—so savage about his little wife!—has quite broken the poor old
man’s spirit. I don’t think we ought to send him away. Of course, there
is the money; and it’s nonsense to pretend that we shouldn’t be glad if
he were to leave us a little. We can’t afford to despise it, Tom. I am
sure he likes me, though he is so cross; and I am not much afraid that
this affair will make any difference in the end. But besides all that,
he is so friendless and alone, rich as he is.—We will try to keep him,
won’t we, Tom dear?’

‘He must be on his good behaviour, then,’ said Tom, only half
mollified. ‘I’ll stand no more nonsense, let him be as rich as Crœsus.’

‘Leave him to me,’ said Lucy; ‘there will be no more trouble with him.
It was my own fault for giving way so much. I shall be wiser now, and
so will he.’

‘As you like, dear,’ said her husband. ‘I have no right to oppose you
in this matter, if you are willing to sacrifice yourself. I am very
much afraid you will be disappointed. Forgiveness of injuries is not
in your dear uncle’s nature, or I am much mistaken. He hates me like
poison now, of course; and he can’t benefit you without doing the same
by me, to some extent.’

‘I don’t know,’ returned Lucy thoughtfully. ‘I think you will find him
very different in future. He seems to me as if he had had a shock. No
one has ever stood up to him before, you know; and the treatment may
have a good effect.’

It did not occur to either of them to attach any importance to the
visits of Mr Blackford, of whose profession they were ignorant. Uncle
Franklin, though he had retired from trade, continued his speculative
investments; and the calls of gentlemen of unmistakable ‘business’
appearance were of such common occurrence, that they had almost ceased
to attract notice in the household, the master and mistress of which
were two of the least curious people in the world.

The old man certainly was altered, suddenly and strangely. His
ill-temper had disappeared; he even refrained from swearing when, on
one occasion, a mishap in the kitchen ruined his lunch. He became
remarkably silent; he gave up his morning walk, seldom read his paper,
and moped all day in his armchair, following Lucy about the room with
his eyes whenever she was present. She was rather anxious about him,
and did her best, by redoubled kindness and attention, to soothe what
she supposed to be his mortification under the sharp rebuke which
he had received. For a long time he scarcely noticed her efforts,
remaining sullen and unresponsive; but after a while she found that
he still liked her to be near him, and got restless and uneasy if
she were long absent. He seemed to have something on his mind, and
would gaze into the fire and mutter anxiously to himself for hours
together. For Tom he entertained a hearty and unconcealed aversion,
never speaking to him unless obliged to do so, and glaring at him with
no doubtful expression whenever his back was turned. Of this Tom was
almost oblivious, and entirely careless; for no ‘expectations,’ however
important to himself or to others, could have enabled him to dissemble
his real feelings towards any one whom he either loved or disliked.




DREAM-FANCIES.


    Whence are ye that come to us
      In the stilly night?
    Wherefore do you torture thus,
      Phantoms of delight?
    Say, if ye are only fancies,
    Why your presence so entrances—
      So deceives our sight?

    Where, oh, where’s your stronghold, tell,
      In what fairy land?
    O’er what meads of Asphodel
      Sport your elfin band?
    Tell me truly, flitting fancies,
    Where you hold those fairy dances,
      On what sunny strand?

    When you, with your subtle spell,
      Hold our senses fast,
    Absent comrades with us dwell,
      Present seems the Past:
    Say, if ye are idle fancies,
    Why, when overpast the trance is,
      Its impressions last?

    Wherefore bring before us still
      Those from whom we sever?
    Mean you, that you tyrants will
      Grant oblivion never?
    Say, if ye are dreams and fancies,
    Why in dreams young Cupid’s lances
      Strike as deep as ever?

    Tell me who your power confers,
      Say from whom ye borrow
    All your magic—harbingers
      Ushering joy or sorrow;
    Why, if ye’re but fickle fancies,
    These dream-faces, these dream-glances
      Haunt us so to-morrow?

    Mortal mind may never know,
      Mortal wisdom cite
    Whence ye come or whither go,
      Spirits of the night:
    Yet your mystery enhances,
    And your witchery entrances
      More than pen may write.

            E. W. H.

       *       *       *       *       *

Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._





*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL OF POPULAR LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 141, VOL. III, SEPTEMBER 11, 1886 ***


    

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